


Sed In Nomine Diaboli

by Emileesaurus



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, Gen, M/M, Mission 51, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 16:59:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17410742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emileesaurus/pseuds/Emileesaurus
Summary: The jungle was hot. The rain was heavy. And a man was dying in front of him.





	Sed In Nomine Diaboli

The jungle was hot. The rain was heavy. And a man was dying in front of him.

It was the twelfth one today. If they were lucky, it wouldn't be the last.

 _They're going to keep coming_ , the White Mamba had announced defiantly. He'd said it like a challenge, the same way he said everything, and the other boys had been afraid. They'd tried to seem brave, but he'd felt it; he had heard the raw terror shudder through them like wind through tall grass. But the White Mamba's anger had been stronger.

It was a good plan. It would work. They could start again.

This soldier, though, it was taking longer than the others had to die. It was really suffering, gasping violently as it thrashed in the sucking black mud, twitching like an insect stuck through with a pin. They'd made it suffer; they'd done this to it! And because it was suffering, it was terrified, and because it was terrified it was incomprehensibly, violently loud. It didn't shout or scream or beg and yet it was so loud it _hurt_.

The pain was a living, writhing beast inside his skull, wailing like an air raid siren, clawing its way inside his ribs and hollowing out his chest with its teeth — he was bleeding out — oh god, it hurt so much — _why is this happening, oh god someone help me, I don't want to die_! He saw through eyes that weren't his own, a monster, a black specter against the shocking green of the forest canopy. The thick sick taste of organ blood filled his mouth, and he was suffocating on it; he couldn't move couldn't scream couldn't even breathe, _what is that thing, it isn't human, please mom where are you, I think I'm going to go to hell—_

A familiar touch at the back of his mind, and the violent red-green-black kaleidoscope snapped back to orange, lens-filtered, hazy and indistinct. It was quiet here. All that blood and pain was somewhere else. He was himself again.

"This one's still alive," Eli said. There was an amused lilt to his voice, like this was all a game to him, and they were winning.

He wanted to understand how Eli felt when he said things like that. _Was_ it a game? Was this fun? He couldn't tell. Whatever it was, he was entangled in it, caught up like a leaf in a whirlpool, drowning in this overwhelming mix of anticipation and fascination and satisfaction. But Eli was so unhappy. They both were. Maybe they would be happy when they won. He couldn't imagine what that would be like. But he did want to win, he was sure of that. And he was sure he had chosen the right side. He was sure because this was the side that had let him choose at all.

He tilted his head and turned to regard Eli through the rain-streaked lenses of his mask. Eli wasn't looking back. He was staring at the soldier as it died, gripping a knife in his hand. He wasn't happy, but a wild grin made his eyes gleam, made the corners of his mouth curl upward. He _did_ look like a snake.

Eli said something, but he didn't hear what it was, because the dying thing's terror was sharp, and its pain was sharper. Fear closed his throat, sudden and strangling; his vision started to fade. He was dizzy, he was falling, he was going under, he was losing himself again, oh please not this…

The bright ribbon of Eli's killing intent was a lifeline, like a hand reaching out and grasping his tight in the dark. He was himself, his own heart was beating in his own chest, and he wasn't afraid. He was alive. He was triumphant! He would do anything to feel like this; he would do anything to keep that fear away. Anything at all. Whatever Eli asked.

"You do it," Eli said. "You kill him."

And to his absolute shock, nothing happened. He didn't move; no one died. No violent shove at his back made him do it, no finger pulled the trigger of his mind. Eli said it the way he always did, haughty and intense. And it _sounded_ like a command. But nothing happened!

The soldier's gasps were growing louder. Almost as wet as the rain. Almost as loud as the trembling, quickening echoes of his own breaths here inside the quiet of his mask.

He had killed before. So many people he'd lost count; so many he'd made himself stop counting. His father. His village. Scientists and soldiers and pilots and doctors and nurses and ambulance drivers and men and women and dogs and horses and little babies. Everyone who'd ever known his name was dead because of him. Because he had been terrified. Because he couldn't control himself.

And he had been a weapon, too. He knew how it would feel to have bullets tear through his flesh, to have metal shred through red muscle and white bone, to feel his guts slip through his hands as his blood guttered into the mud. He'd had one man's agony whipping through his head as another man moved the world through him. He had felt Eli's hatred like coming up for air, and together they had brought Sahelanthropus howling to life, like a monster out of a movie.

But he had never been the one to choose.

"It's them or us," Eli said.

It was.

"They're coming to wipe us out."

They were.

"Do it," Eli said again.

He wanted to do it. _He_ wanted to.

"Take back your freedom."

He did.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm fascinated by the dynamic between Liquid and Mantis, and why they might have stayed together even though Liquid is profoundly obnoxious and Mantis is neither loyal nor idealistic. When I wrote this I was very into the concept of Liquid serving as the catalyst for Mantis's self-actualization by being a kind of emotional lightning rod — cutting through all that psychic noise by being the angriest thing in any room! — and the strange combination of freedom and dependence that might arise from that type of relationship. This fic is just me meandering vaguely around that topic.
> 
> The title has its origins in the following quote from Moby Dick, in which Ahab is forging his revenge harpoon in human blood:
> 
> _'Ego non baptizo te in nomine patris, sed in nomine diaboli!' deliriously howled Ahab, as the malignant iron scorchingly devoured the baptismal blood._
> 
> Translated: "I baptize you not in the name of the father, but in the name of the devil."


End file.
